Cold
There is dust and there is us
And they are the same.
Our bones are ash, our muscles soil
that greets the roots of an impossible tree.
I live only in the backs of other people’s minds now,
and not always fondly.
I wish there was more to say for a life such as mine,
but I can speak no more.
Time is cold, a waiting that shivers and writhes
like fingers over flame.
I am not ready for the end
I did not do enough, I did too much.
This is the path of the good-intentioned.
The ones whose stories fade with passing days
and whose suffering is a woe best unthought of.
I do not hold things like regret, but I wish Them to know
what agony it is to be human.
To wake and walk in a world of such vast
and unconquerable shadows.
My hollow cheeks are stung with tears, my wishes fallen
to the wind that whips past ears no longer pricked to listen.
I ache not for lost time, but for a different one
An age in which I could’ve been the best of myself.
We lost sight of the Good inside all the Greed,
forgot to look past green pastures to the skies beyond.
I got lost, too,
and now the Doors open to greet me.
I am not ready to be an ending
I did too much, I did not do enough.
This is the path of the damned.
I imagined Hell to be an insufferable heat,
scorching and unrelenting flames.
It is Cold here
And it is only me.